In My Remains
by Corey5268
Summary: Solid is a mere illusion. It's the limits of your mind telling you that you won't fall through the floor, or that you'll simply crash into that wall. He's is not one to be fooled by illusions of reality. When he's nearly up to his elbow in blood and organs, he reaches her heart. Pulling it out is no trouble. Attached can become unattached very quickly.


Solid is a mere illusion. It's the limits of your mind telling you that you won't fall through the floor, or that you'll simply crash into that wall. John Watson is not a man to be fooled by illusions of reality. It was around one in the morning when he walked up to the door. Other than a light in the window on the floor above, the house was dark. The stars were hiding behind the glare of London's street lights. John didn't knock on the door or ring the bell. Placing his hand on the steel, he took a deep breath. The space beneath his fingertips rippled like water. Pushing forward, he made his way to the other side. The new house wasn't as nice as her last place, but quite posh for the house of a dead woman. A melody quietly sung drifted downstairs. That's lovely, he thought. I'll take it with me.

Without a sound, John Watson made his way above. Unlike the rest of the house, but perhaps not surprisingly, her bedroom was not in shades of white and cream. The walls were covered in a silver and light grey damask print, and the patchwork quilt on her bed was much the same. John pointedly ignored the tiny periodic table in a frame on the bedside table. Her singing quickly stopped when noticed him patiently setting his bag down in the vanity's mirror. One, two, three seconds passed before she put down the hairbrush, and stood up. Without a quip or a breath, she walked around the bed to face John at the door. He lowered the dark hood of his jacket. There was a moment of quiet study before she finally spoke up.

"You managed to get in here without triggering an alarm. I'm not sure if I should be impressed," The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. "Or if I should punish you." John allowed a smile. It's funny how he had briefly desired her all those years ago. Now that he finally had her attention, he really couldn't care less.

"You should be very impressed. Also, I'll let you in on a little secret, Irene. A little fear never hurts either." She laughed.

"Of you, Doctor Watson?" That was the side of him she had seen all those years ago. He leaned close to her ear and whispered.

"Did you even know, Irene, that I served in the army for almost a decade? Were you aware that for the five years before I was shot, I was a member of the Special Air Service? If I tell you why they gave me the title of 'Captain' back, some scary government man is going to show up and slit my throat." The clever girl had the sense to shiver. Irene took a step away from him.

"Why are you here, John?" She held her chin up in defiance, and stood her ground. John's turned to stone. If he was feeling anything, it didn't show through his skin.

"You tried to take what's mine, Miss Adler."

"I go by 'Norton' these days," John rolled his eyes. Irrelevant correction. "And I never tried to take anything from you, John. Mycroft was the target in that whole fiasco." The soldier's eyes narrowed, but remained focused on her. Steel resolve shone through his every pore.

"I think we both know what I'm talking about, Miss Adler." He ignored the correction and stepped closer. "All along you knew that it belongs to me. That day in the warehouse? You knew it before I did."

Irene looked puzzled for a moment, slowly mouthing "'The day in the warehouse'?" to herself. When she stumbled across the correct memory, John could almost see their conversation dancing across her eyes like a script. Something akin to guilt laced her voice as she asked, "Did you two ever sort it out?"

"He'll figure it out sooner or later. That's why I'm here, actually." John explained, voice shifting from cheerful to quiet and dangerously calm.

"I gave up years ago!" A humorless chuckle clawed its way out of his throat.

"Really? Because I was told that you've been, like always, a little bit naughty. I forgave you for all those years ago. I know what it's like, being caught up in his whirlwind for the first time. It's beautiful, maddening, and completely irresistible. And those cheekbones?" John closed his eyes, and made a noise of appreciation. When his eyes snapped back open, they were burning. "I could forgive you a couple of times, but I can't forgive you again. Once, Irene, is an accident. Twice, Irene, might be a mistake. Three times, though? I told you that he'll figure out that it's mine eventually. I'm here to make sure that you won't be standing in the way. I wouldn't mind a bit of competition if you actually loved him. Hell, as long as it would make him happy I'd be fine. You don't really love him though. Is it the thrill of the chase, Irene? I think it's all a game to you. See if you can be the first to lure him in? Would you throw him away after you were finished, or would you play a little longer?" John laughs again and steps even closer. Irene's eyes widened with fear as her thigh hit the edge of her mattress.

"John?" Recognition sparks across his face.

"Oh, God! Don't worry. I'm not going to rape you, or anything like that. I don't get off on pain or power. Nevertheless, this still isn't going to be much of a pleasant experience for you." In the space of a second, Irene grabbed a syringe from between the mattress and the bed's frame. Before she could plunge it into John's arm, he seized her wrist and forced the needle out of her hand. With a twist, John had Irene lying face down on the ground. Ever the dominatrix, she even refused to give up the power that comes with a tear.

"What are you going to do then? Haven't you heard? I'm already dead!" Her feral laugh reminded John of some psych patients he had come across in his many years. Irene Adler laughed like she was losing her mind. Sometimes it's all that can be done to hold back the tears.

"Much worse than that," John quipped with pernicious cheer. "You tried to take his heart from me, and now I'm going to take yours." One last twist of Irene's bones caused her body to go limp once and for all. John removed his knee from her back and flipped her body over. Watson stood up and brushed the dust from his dark pants. He retrieved what he needed from his bag by the door, and placed his hand on the throat of the corpse. Slowly, it sunk beneath the skin. He swirled his fingers around gently. When he gingerly removed his hand from her throat, a soft silver light was wrapped around it, and whispers filled the room. It was the same lovely voice he heard earlier. Delicately, he placed the silver light in a glass jam jar and sealed the lid. The whispers stopped.

John pulled on a pair of latex gloves and selected a scalpel. No tremor was present in the surgeon's hand as he cut a line from Irene's stomach to her sternum. The stomach flaps and muscles were pulled to the side so that John could reach under her ribs. When he was nearly up to his elbow in blood and organs, he reached her heart. Cutting it out was no trouble. Attached can become unattached very quickly. John sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, turning Irene's heart over in his palm. Such an ordinary thing it was. The muscle was small enough to fit in his hand, and yet strong enough to power a body. John raised the heart up to his mouth and sank his teeth in. Red blood stained his lips and dripped down his chin as he chewed. The heart was still body temperature, which makes it easier to swallow. Every bite was one taken with reverence. One heart sacrificed to protect another. That's how the world works. In war one man is killed so another can survive. People mindlessly sacrifice the hearts of others every day.

John smirked at the final bite left in his hand. All's fair in love and war, Irene. And with that, he let the final piece of The Woman's heart slither down his throat. The doctor put the flaps of her stomach in their proper places and ran his finger down the incision. The fat, muscles, and skin come together as if they were never cut. John placed his hand in the puddle of blood spilled from Irene. In the dim light, the liquid looked almost like chocolate syrup. Slowly, with much concentration, it seeped through the floorboards into nonexistence. John got up, put his gloves in his bag and walked into the bathroom. The white latex wasn't long enough to prevent his forearms from being painted with crimson. Soap and bubbles and warm pink water were John's last stop before gathering his things and leaving the cooling corpse behind.

Downstairs, John puts his hood back up. The man breathes his way through the walls and into the street. It's around two in the morning now. The stars are still hiding and London is still London. John Watson whistles as he walks all the way back to Baker Street. There's no evidence in that building that will point to him. After all, evidence is just our imaginations at work.


End file.
